Every Time
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Poor Molly-she falls for his games every single time. Yet that's why we love her! Set in the morgue, some time during season one (and definitely pre-Christmas party). Read and Review please! Updated Summary: now a multi-chapter, with appearances from John and Toby the cat :). Will Molly have the courage to stand up to Sherlock? (*All rights to their respective owners*)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Thanks so much for the kind reviews, lovely readers! I've been focusing on Sherlolly because I love writing about them and you all seem to enjoy my little one-shots too! So this is another one…I meant to make it a bit fluffier, but then my usual dark side took over. :D Because of the nature of the ending, I may make it a two-shot. Let me know if you'd like that or if you'd like it to stay the way it is!**

**P.S. Zora Arian—I promise that I will do something fluffy soon! ;)**

Every time it was the same. Her heartbeat quickened with the footsteps. She fixed her hair, straightened her lab-coat, tried to look professional and put-together.

He wouldn't notice, though, unless it would help get what he wanted.

_"You're wearing lipstick."_

_"You changed your hair!"_

Only he could make her heart flutter even as it fell.

Today, he came into the lab almost…quietly—without his usual stentorian requests and quick stride. That was surprising, as she could have been sure that he was coming down to harangue over a posse of DNA samples that she wouldn't let him have but which he wanted particularly. Yet he was moving more deliberately this morning, and he was carrying—

Two cups of coffee.

Her eyes widened. "Good morning, Sherlock…is that…?"

"Coffee?" The corners of his firm lips tugged upwards in the smallest hint of a smile. "Remarkable display of your observational skills, Molly. Yes it is."

"Um, is it for an experiment? Because…um…I can't have you pouring it on the corpses or anything."

He set the cups with an aggrieved expression. "Why would you suppose that I would do such a thing?"

_Remember. He's a sociopath, just like everyone says. It doesn't matter that his eyes are the bluest in the world or that his features s are very…attractive…oh, those cheekbones…_

_He doesn't mean it when he looks at you like that. He just wants something._

"Of course you wouldn't," she murmured in reply. "But what's the coffee for?"

His voice dropped lower, making even the simplest of words send thrills all through her. "For you."

Every warning, wary thought flew out of her mind immediately. "For me? You brought me coffee?"

He nodded, and the hint of a smile had grown, so that there was a real, shy, sweet smile on his face.

_Oh gosh…it's too much to be true! What if—oh. Of course._

"Is it drugged?" She'd heard…things…from John.

His arched brows drew together slightly, signaling his confusion—a most unusual state of mind for the great Sherlock Holmes. "What? No."

Embarrassment flooded over her. "Sorry." She made an expression half-way between a smile and a grimace. _Shut up, Molly. Shut up. _"It's just…I don't know…I wasn't thinking. Thanks for this."

"You're welcome." He handed her one of the cups and his fingers brushed against hers for a second. They were cool to the touch, but she felt hot all over.

"Thanks," she said, to hide her confusion and then realized that she'd said it already. _Oops._ "Why—why did you bring it? I mean, it's very nice of you, it's positively sweet, it's…"

His expression was amused, although, as usual, she couldn't read the expression in his brilliant blue eyes. "You're always the one who brings me coffee," he explained. "I thought I'd reciprocate." Was it just her own silliness, or…was there a layer of warmth between the detached tone of his voice.

She allowed herself a shy smile. "I appreciate it," she said, infusing the words with a thousand times more meaning than their apparent simplicity could convey. After all, she'd been using the flattest, most ordinary words to tell him that she loved him ever since they had first met.

They stood and sipped their coffee. He leaned gracefully against one of the morgue tables, still far taller than her even when he wasn't standing up straight.

Molly basked in the moment, noticing how chiseled his cheekbones were over the rim of the coffee cup; observing—there, she was observing…wouldn't he be proud?—how the rich blue of his scarf (expertly knotted) brought out the even clearer blue of his eyes; noting how his slender, elegant fingers were scarred with the faint remains of many experiences.

_Oh, to be closer to him…_

If she closed her eyes for a moment, she could imagine that he was next to her, draping his arm across her shoulders, pulling her close to him…

_Only in your dreams, Molly._ Her eyes snapped open.

Sherlock had moved away from the morgue table and was peering at various items—the DNA samples (_better not touch them, Sherlock!_), notepads, evidence bags, that were arranged neatly on the steel countertop.

"You looking for something?"

He turned and smiled brightly at her. "Nope. Is the coffee right? You take it black, two sugars, right?"

She nodded. "Just like you—I mean, um. Yes. It's perfect."

"Wonderful." He drained his mug and took hers gently. "Glad that you enjoyed it."

"I did. Maybe we can do it again—"

He didn't seem to have heard. "I've got to run—but this was nice. Thank you."

_Oh God. He just said it was_ nice.

She savored the thought as his footsteps died away down the long corridor. _"Glad you enjoyed it…this was nice…I wanted to reciprocate…"_

Had he _finally_ noticed?

Had _something _changed?

Biting her lip to hide the huge grin that was spreading over her face, she turned to go back to work.

And something _had_ changed.

Half the DNA samples were missing.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Ok, so now this is definitely going to be a three-shot (at least)…hope you don't mind! This is a little Molly scene, with her kind of meditating on what happened and what she should do. Several reviewers—and thank you all so very much for your kind words—thought that Molly should go and sort of give Sherlock what-for for his incorrigibly bad behavior. :) I kind of like that idea so we'll see where it goes. **

**I really hope that I've stayed close to the character for this little piece, guys! Let me know—I do love and cherish Molly so much that I don't want to ruin her by clumsy writing. If anything is veering off, please tell me! Enjoy!**

"He did it again. I just stood there, and drank my coffee, and thought he'd changed. He hadn't."

Molly pressed a tissue to her eyes, feeling silly and inconsequential and easily duped.

Which she knew she was.

"I don't know how to act knowledgeable or mature around him. I just start being an idiot. And he knows that, and he uses it." She blew her nose. "He uses me, Toby."

Toby purred sympathetically and nestled comfortably on her lap. She stroked his soft ears absently and stared through blurry eyes at the telly. One of the soaps was on, and a girl wearing too much lipstick was telling her ex to get his heart broken by someone else.

_That would be nice—to tell him to go break his heart over someone else. _

There were only a few problems with that. One, Sherlock wasn't her ex. Or her boyfriend. Or anything even remotely resembling a boyfriend. Two, he wasn't in the habit of falling love with people. And three, he didn't believe that hearts could be broken.

"But mine is, you dear fluffy cat. Every day. Every time he walks in and walks out. He takes a little piece of me along with him, with whatever else he wanted."

She shook her head at Toby. "Look at me, babbling on. I'd better get a cup of tea, right? Mum always says that tea helps. I bet she drank a lot of tea when Dad died. But nobody's dead, Toby."

Toby purred.

"It's so ridiculous. He just tricked me again. It's not the end of the world. He tricked me, and he took the DNA samples. And—Toby, I'm supposed to send them up to forensics by tomorrow!"

The tea was forgotten. Her stomach twisted. _I have to get those back._

_How?_

_I could text John…_

But she knew very well that the only way for her to get the samples back—and possibly the only way to save her job—was to march over to 221B herself and get them back, braving deductions and cheekbones and steely blue eyes.

She switched the telly off.

"I'm going to do it, Toby. I'm going to try to make Sherlock do something he doesn't want to."

_Probably the last person who tried that ended up dead._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: First of all, thank you all so very much for the reviews, especially to those who have reviewed twice! Thanks also to all those who have favorite or followed. If I haven't PMed you, please send me one—I'd love to chat about our mutual love for this amazing show and its fantastic characters! :D**

**A couple of notes—one, I know that Sherlock is being a real jerk in this story. I do love him like this, but I hope he's not too annoying. That detached, frustrating, arrogant nature of his what makes us love him, right? Another note—I've deferred the Molly confrontation AGAIN because I think this may end up being a five chapter fic. I'm proud of myself for developing a longer plotline, but I'm sorry for the continued suspense and delays!**

**Hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

"Sherlock."

No answer.

John sighed, pulling the newspaper taut by its edges so it would stop flopping over in its usual aggravating fashion. Truth be told, though, the incorrigible _Daily Journal _wasn't what really perturbed him. No, that would be to the credit of his very brilliant, very eccentric, very trying flatmate.

"Sherlock, I'm not going to ask again. Did you, or didn't you, call that man back? He's been pestering me—calling _my_ phone, how did he get a hold of that number, I wonder?—for the past two days."

Sherlock did not take his eyes from the microscope lenses. "Pen."

"What?"

"Pen." He extended his hand.

"I'm not giving you a pen until you start paying attention to me and my questions." John shook his head, more frustrated than ever. Normally, he would have just tossed Sherlock the desired writing implement instead of making a problem out of it, but sometimes the rebellious sense of his "bad days" as an Army doctor flared up and he could be quite as petulant and demanding as the Detective himself.

Sherlock did not look up.

"He's been calling—and calling—with some sort of problem that he wants you to consult on."

"Is is boring?"

_Finally. _"I don't know Sherlock, because whenever I think something's interesting, you think it's boring."  
"Did you think it was interesting?"

"Yes."

"Then, according to your logic, it is actually boring. Pen."

John rubbed his forehead, picked up a pen, and tossed it to him. "Take the bloody thing."

Sherlock scribbled down some notes, completely unruffled.

"What are you looking at. Are those—Sherlock, are those the DNA samples that Molly Hooper told you couldn't have?"

"'Couldn't' is quite a definitive word, John."

"Did Molly say you could have them?"

"Don't be an idiot, John, if you can possibly help it. We're not in primary school."  
John set his jaw. "You stole them, didn't you."

Sherlock gave a slight shrug. "I confiscated them temporarily."

"You stole them. Or you manipulated her into giving you them."

Sherlock scoffed. "Manipulation is giving me too much credit, John. Convincing _her_ to give me something requires so little of my cerebral talents that it's hardly worth mentioning. I bring her coffee, or comment on her lipstick, and she practically falls over herself trying to accommodate me. It would be almost flattering, if it weren't so pathetic. No, John, I cannot permit myself that accolade of manipulator as it relates to Molly Hooper."

John ground his teeth. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, you are the nastiest, coldest son of a—" he stopped himself at the sound of the door opening and footsteps downstairs. Mrs. Hudson disapproved of such language.

Sherlock looked up from the microscope at last, with a look of total innocence. "That's a bit harsh. Come now, I've told you time and again that I'm not a hero. My experiments occasionally demand materials that, due to the complete stupidity of various organizations, are not readily accessible to persons of my abilities. To obtain them, it is necessary sometimes to divert the unwelcome attention of lesser minds. The ends of my research are more important."

John blew out his breath, deciding that his years in Afghanistan had not been nearly so aging as his time in 221B Baker street. The real irony was that despite Sherlock's seemingly astronomical intelligence, there were certain concepts that had to be explained in a childlike fashion.

John did his best."Here's the thing. If you just walked into an empty morgue, stole half a dozen DNA samples, and walked out, I'd just leave you to the tender care of DI Lestrade or whoever else got to you first. It would just be illegal, Sherlock—it wouldn't be cruel."

"Cruel?" Sherlock seemed genuinely bemused—a very unusual occurrence.

"What you do to Molly is cruel," John said, emphasizing each word clearly, that his brilliantly dense companion might better comprehend. "It's _cruel,_ Sherlock—the way you get her hopes up every time and then crush her down like she's nothing." He'd noticed that the footsteps had come up the stairs and then stopped, as though someone were hesitant to try the door.

Sherlock had steepled his fingers against his chin with a detached expression. "Hopes up for what, John? No, don't stop and turn red in the face—you're doing very well at these explanations of sentiment and chivalry. It's almost interesting. Not as interesting as two hundred and forty-three different types of tobacco analysis, but more interesting than Anderson. So that's something."

Before John could reply, retaliate, or possible throw something at him, there was a hesitant tapping on the door.

Sherlock fixed his eyes on the microscope lenses again. "If it's less than a six, I'm not interested."

"Let's see if it's even a case first, Sherlock."

The tapping came again, a little more firmly.

Since Sherlock never answered the door, John rose, folded his paper, and strode forward. He opened the door, but his greeting trailed into silence at the sight of the visitor.

It was Molly Hooper.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry to keep you all in suspense. THIS is the scene you've all been waiting for! I hope that it's up to your expectations! :D**

**Thanks all for your lovely reviews. More feedback is always appreciated!**

Molly had practiced what she was going to say for the whole cab ride to Baker Street, forming the words silently, trying to infuse her demeanor with a courage she was far from feeling.

_You'll be able to do it. You'll be great. You can do this._

That's what she'd been telling herself since she walked out her own front door, leaving a skeptical Toby behind her.

That's what she'd reassured herself with as she leaned back against the faux-leather covered seat of the taxi.

That's what she'd sworn to as she marched up the streets of 221B.

That's what had utterly, completely, entirely left her as soon as John opened the door and she found herself in the same room with Sherlock Holmes.

The man who barely ever looked at her but to find a flaw.

The man who had manipulated her and stolen from her.

The man whom she loved.

Molly's throat was dry, and her jaw seemed paralyzed. She was pretty sure that she couldn't' have said a single syllable, even if she had tried.

Robbed of one ability, she found her perception sharpened to almost painful heights. Not unlike a certain other hyper-observant person, she began to notice everything about the scene—John's kind face, lined with patience and weariness…his eyebrows tilted slightly, like he wasn't sure what to expect.

Almost unwillingly, her eyes were drawn next to Sherlock—the object of her fury and her affection.

_Am I really furious?_

_Yes, I am! He stole my samples._

As she steeled herself for the burgeoning confrontation, she tried to not to notice how…attractive he was. It was hard. His piercing blue eyes were fixed unwaveringly on her, and every filament of his finely structured, fiercely handsome face was characteristically impassive.

She had a moment's misgivings, and her stomach flipped like an acrobat hurtling between trapezes. If Sherlock felt surprised, or guilty, or nervous, it was not apparent form his expression.

"Hello, Molly," John said slowly. "…come in?"

"Thanks, I won't stay more than a moment," she murmured, and was disheartened to hear how squeaky and diminutive her voice sounded. Just like usual. _Come on, Molly. Keep it together. You're in the right here._

Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot behindthe microscope, but his long, inquisitive fingers were toying with a _very_ familiar DNA sample. His expression hadn't changed, but she felt as though she caught a hint of derision in the depths of his eyes.

_He's making fun of you. He doesn't have to say a word to make you feel like nothing._

_Darn it, Molly Rose Hooper! Put him in his place!_

She squared her shoulders, like she'd seen her dad do a thousand times when he'd gone out on a call with his police squad. She tilted her chin and stepped forward, putting out a hand.

"Sherlock, give me back my samples."

Behind her, she could hear John's intake of breath—it spoke as clearly as though he'd said, _Good Lord, here we go._

Sherlock's perfectly arched eyebrows shot up. "Your samples, Molly? They are being used in a rather crucial experiment at the moment, so accommodating such a request is not possible." His deep, rich voice sent the usual thrills over her—_Gosh, I can't _help_ it—_but she wouldn't let herself give in.

"Now. I mean it."

Sherlock just leaned back in his chair slightly, surveying here with the same expression he had had a moment ago when he was peering through the lens of his microscope. "Do you mean it? Really? Evidently, you're agitated—the fact that you didn't even stop to consider the untended buildup of cat hair on your coat and the crooked fit suggests that you left in a hurry…although sartorial interests have never really been yours, have they? You've chewed all your lipstick off—another sign of nervousness, and right now, you're clenching your hands…indicating that, despite this façade of a 'meaningful' request, you are, in actuality, no more confident than usual."

He'd done it again. There was a tightness in her throat that felt like crying did. _Once…just once…look at me like you care. Like you don't think I'm a silly, pitiful idiot. Just once. See me as a human being._

He couldn't—or wouldn't. She didn't know which. For a few seconds, she blinked hard and debated about whether or not she should walk away, defeated.

_Yes, you should._

_No, you shouldn't. It's not like you have anything to lose anyway. Certainly not his respect…_

With a sudden and unexpected surge of defiance, she clenched her fists tighter. "You know what? I don't care. I don't care if the fact that my nail polish is chipped means that I'm a nervous nailbiter. I am. It doesn't matter if I wear baggy clothes because I don't like the way I look. It's true, I don't. It doesn't matter if I'm silly, and plain, and boring, and stupid. _I'm_ the only pathologist at St. Bart's who will help you, because nobody else will put up with your behavior. I don't mean to be harsh, but you can be rude to people. Especially me. The only time you've been nice to me is when you're lying, bringing me coffee to get something you want or complimenting me on my hair or makeup to get a favor. And you know what? I'm sick of it. So we're done. See how far you get without the help of someone who has a real, actual, boring job. Go find your own DNA samples, Sherlock, for your _crucial_ experiments." She reached forward and snatched the whole pack, right out of his hands. "But I'll have mine back now."

She paused, breathing hard. Her eyes were wide and she knew that she was probably chalk white or bright red—or perhaps some a mix of the two, which would make for an odd combination.

_What_ had she just done? Her fingers, clutching the rescued samples, felt icy cold. _Oh goodness, I just 'talked back' to Sherlock Holmes._

Mousey Molly was regaining control, but it was too late for timidity. The room was superbly silent. John had his mouth hanging open, but Molly thought he actually looked pleased, like he was saying, _"It's about time."_

Sherlock was motionless, staring at her. There were no emotions to be read in his keen eyes, but she sensed that he was looking at her with interest, real interest, for the first time.

She knew herself too well to believe that she could withstand that gaze for much longer. She would melt right in front of him, stumble out some foolish words about how she was sorry, even—heaven forbid!—hand him back the samples with all the dignity of a penitent puppy.

Mousey Molly was ready to do all of this. But the other Molly—the Molly who had watched her father walk out the door every morning with a fearless stride, who had paid her way through university, who had not come all this way to lose her job over a bag of stolen DNA samples and a pair of ice-blue eyes—was not going to stand for it.

So before she could do anything stupid and utterly destroy the moment, she turned and walked out, clutching the samples. She walked past Sherlock—still speechless (what a shock!)—and John, who had begun to smile, past Mrs. Hudson, who had shown up at some unknown point and who, from her astonished expression, had listened to the whole tirade…past them all and down the stairs of 221B.

She had set her hand on the knob of the front door and was just turning it when she heard footsteps above.

And then—to her complete shock, she heard a familiar voice saying, "Molly—wait!"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ok, guys, this is it—the last chapter. A five-shot, I'm so proud of myself! I hope that you all have enjoyed it and that this is a satisfying ending to a fic that I thoroughly enjoyed writing. Thank you so very much for the reviews—Benedict-Addict Holmes, Doctor WTF, magicstrikes, whytejigsaw, Zora Arian, Guest, .758, MorbidbyDefault, Rocking the Redhead, Violette1415scs, hipkarma, and patemalah21. If it isn't too much trouble, I'd LOVE to hear your thoughts on this final chapter as well! **

**Thanks so much!**

A moment beforehand, Sherlock had been determined that no possible diversion caused by Molly Hooper would wrest him from his microscope. For one thing, he disliked seeming in anyway dependent upon others' actions. For another, Molly had behaved in a way that was most…unexpected…and which had, at least temporarily, disrupted his ability to respond with cool disinterest.

He had vowed that he would appear completely unruffled, so as to deflect John's and Mrs. Hudson's judgments before they were even formulated…he had vowed to stay perfectly still, fixing his eyes again on the lenses that he pretended were so entirely fascinating. He had vowed—very hard indeed—not to care.

But when Molly had turned to go, with her ponytail switching over her shoulders, with a defiant tilt to her chin that at the same time exuded vulnerability, with the infamous DNA samples clutched in her thin, graceful (funny, he'd never noticed that before) fingers, something in him had risen up so quickly and formidably that his usual iron defenses were quite useless.

With hardly a thought as to what he was doing or why he was doing, he had kicked back his chair, strode out afterwards—ignoring John's eyebrows and Mrs. Hudson's perfunctory _"tsk, tsks."_

He went out the door of 221B, shutting it behind him, and called her name.

"Molly—wait!"

Her bold exit dwindled as she paused mid-step, snapping around to face him. Her face was pale, but the fire had not completely faded out of her brown eyes.

"What, Sherlock?" the words, meant to be a challenge, came out almost as a plea.

John's accusatory tirade floated back through his mind. _"What you do to Molly is cruel."_

_Cruel?_

He had discarded the very remotest possibility of such a thing when John had suggested it, certain that he was doing so because it—like almost all of ordinary people's petty problems—was foolish and insignificant. He had told himself that it wasn't true, and that it wouldn't have mattered if it had been.

And yet…

_Don't waste your time explaining, your experiment is more important_, he reassured himself, hoping that his rationalizations would prompt to step back inside and forget all about Molly Hooper and her sorrowful, angry, flashing eyes.

Instead, he found himself descending, at an almost hurried pace.

_What are you doing?_

The Mind Palace was under siege; for once, the actions of Sherlock Holmes did not have a rational explanation. He compelled himself to put all that aside and just _say something._

_…"It's _cruel_, Sherlock—the way you get her hopes up every time and then crush her down like she's nothing."_

He locked eyes with Molly. "Have I hurt you?"

She bit her lip in that distracted, embarrassed way that he had noticed without caring so many times. Yet despite this familiar diminutive action, her answer was clear. "Always."

_Always?_ He would not admit it—even to himself—but he was…astonished. He looked at her searchingly, trying to discern some reasoning behind her answer—if it was indeed true that he was a constant source of pain to her, what possible design could she have in tolerating him?

He looked deeply into her eyes and found not a design, but something deeper.

_Oh._

She actually cared for him. Not a silly, superficial school-girl crush, as he had heretofore presumed, but with an actual, deep, sincere affection that burned steadily, unsatisfied, unnoticed, within her.

He had never cared for sentiment, but this…this struck him as almost—_tragic._

_"Unfortunately, I've never been interested in anything else about you other than your access to the lab,_" he thought of saying—it would be honest, but then again, he had a nagging feeling that it would be, in John's words, "more than a bit not-good."

So instead, he said, as gently as he could, "I did not know."

It was not _quite_ so hard as saying that he was sorry, but it was…close. But at the same time, it was… it was good to see something in Molly's soul soften.

"It's alright," she said slowly. "You never asked, and I never told you."

"It was—it was not kind," he pushed forward. _What is about these particular words that makes them so difficult? It's like speaking through cotton. Is this how it is for the rest of the world? _

"No," she murmured—long lashes sweeping pale cheeks—"It wasn't." She looked at him. She had an unusually penetrating gaze, when she looked straight into one's eyes. "But then, at least you talked to me. Not for my sake at all, it's true. But I appreciated it—even though I knew it wasn't real—because nobody else talks to me. Not even to use me."

Just when he had decided that making amends was a trifling, foolish thing to do, her words took him by surprise again.

"Nobody?" He could scarcely conceal his shock.

Most women would be sniveling at his point, and therefore, irritating him, but there were no tears in Molly's eyes. "No one," she said, sweetly but steadfastly. "Working in a morgue and having a bad taste in jumpers don't do much for one's social life."

"I suppose not."

She glanced at her watch. "Well, Sherlock…um, I'd say it's been nice…but it hasn't been. So, well, I guess that I'll go?"

He marveled at how she had managed to be insulting and apologetic at the same time. It was—rather intriguing.

"I'll walk you out," he replied, a trifle woodenly. He had assumed—correctly—that despite her irritation, those hidden feelings were still strong enough that she didn't object to his company for a quick jaunt out into the frosty night.

Molly paused on the doorstep. He watched, silently, as her eyes roved over the brass letters on the door, the glow of the lamppost, and finally, back to him. She shivered a little. "Goodbye, Sherlock. I—I'm not angry now. Not anymore."

He knew that he _should_ have tilted an eyebrow with bored skepticism, flattened her with a quip about the utter insignificance of her ire as far he was concerned, and otherwise showed her how little she mattered. Instead, he heard himself say simply, "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

She nodded, with the beginnings of a shy little smile that made her look like she always did, and turned to walk down the sidewalk.

He watched her go, with her slim shoulders slightly hunched forward, against the cold—with the wintry twilit breeze tousling her long brown hair.

He remembered—clearly, as he remembered everything—the fascinating balance of hope and despair he had glimpsed in her eyes.

For a moment, he wished that all his manipulative flirtations over the past months hadn't been a ruse, a game, a lie.

But then again—after all, perhaps they hadn't.

~FIN~


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